


Debt and Resurrection

by pettiot



Series: Professionals Timeline [12]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Case Gone Violent, Impending Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-30
Updated: 2010-09-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22241764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Set against the background of a mediocre operation, Doyle is ready to snap.
Relationships: Bodie/Doyle
Series: Professionals Timeline [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600894





	Debt and Resurrection

Three weeks ago, Home Office awarded them their brief. It was tenuous, suggestive, and representative of the continued decline in the robustness of operations assigned to CI5 of late.

Bodie leaned against the hangar wall, cold despite his steward's uniform, replete with vest, tie, blazer. Doyle would be feeling it worse in his short-sleeved office shirt, cheap and badly fitted, when the adrenaline dropped. Doyle looked repulsive, Bodie decided. The office imp of doom, breath fogging in small bursts, eyes wild. His arm, hair standing on end with the cold, his hand, the gun at the end of it held criminally steady.

'This isn't what we're here for, Doyle.'

'So no one's going to get on our case about it, are they?' A snarl. 'No standing orders to bring 'em in still twitching.'

At the wrong end of Doyle's gun, Will Santorini held steady, too, sprawled where Doyle's blow had put him. He had not been afraid when Doyle had followed him out from the lunchroom, nor when he had been hit, or cornered. Men like Will Santorini never believed in their own mortality.

After ten years, Bodie believed in Doyle's mortality with a fervour surpassing faith.

They were supposed to be strangers on this op. Bodie had abandoned his lunch and followed Doyle out here regardless, to stand here now, eying his partner's heaving chest. He wondered when, where it was that Doyle had lost it.

''S murder, mate.'

Doyle's lip curled, cheeks shiny with sweat. 'Don't care.'

The hair on Doyle's forearm was thicker than it used to be. Going grey. Bodie stared down his own brewing headache with a cocked eyebrow. 'Reckon he deserves it?'

'Well I wouldn't have pulled my bloody _gun_ if I didn't, would I? I know it's not a fucking lollipop!'

They'd diced for it this time, CI5's oldest and greatest, Doyle, Bodie, Murphy, Anson, Fischer. Seniority simply through surviving the longest, from inception, through trials, to the invariable decline. Anson won this round and went to collaborate with the old man. Theoretically under Anson's directive, they had set up surveillance, planted agents, followed the pattern to the source, did everything right. Ground crew, cabin crew, office staff, administration, airport security, customs. They had someone in everywhere. Santorini in particular checked off every box on a terrorist's profile -- except, after three weeks, Doyle discovered Will Santorini wasn't their man.

By then, Doyle had also discovered Santorini's kiddie porn stash. Which had nothing to do with their brief.

Bodie ambled over, putting himself in Doyle's line of sight, ignoring the snapped curse, the shuddering breaths, the tension he could feel as though it was his own. He kicked Santorini's shiny shoe. 'Oi. You reckon you deserve this, Will, mate? A bullet between the brows to put an end to all that kiddy fiddling?'

Santorini glanced up, at Doyle, around. His tongue touched his upper lip as he considered his answer. His eyes narrowed, as though he could see a way out, away from the wild-eyed madman who'd thrown him down, cursed his parentage and kicked his bollocks, and drawn a gun. 'What's it matter what I think?'

'Clever lad,' Bodie admired, and broke Will Santorini's neck.

.

The shuttle took Bodie through the airport's service facilities gate, where the picket line was still going. The airline's recent downsizing had been brutally enacted, including management's decision to surrender the profitable routes to larger operators. Plummeting levels of staff satisfaction led to gaping holes in security procedures. Home Office only interested itself when intelligence tricked to an identifiable pattern, a regular recording of incorrect passenger numbers: a signifier of a terrorist's mode of operation, worming an army into Britain. For whatever reason, Cowley pulled this operation out of MI5's pile of discards.

Bodie took to the streets several blocks before his flat and walked the rest of the way. He was plotting a conversation, and walking helped.

When he got in, he threw his carryall on the sofa, loosened the striped tie, and checked the fridge. After daydreaming about real curry for the last two days, he was heartbroken to find his desires one-sided: a fat plate of leftovers blinked back at him, having taken up a strictly monogamous relationship with a murky green fungal spore.

He binned it, then sifted through his collection of takeaway menus without his hunger fixing on anything. He should call Anson now. And with how _persnickety_ Cowley had been of late, it would have surprised Anson that Bodie bothered.

So Bodie called Cowley, and told him that Santorini was off the watch list.

'Why isn't Doyle calling in? Santorini was his mark.'

'Had a bit of a run-in, sir, I sent Doyle off to cool down. Santorini wasn't our man, but he'd left a fair bit of nasty stuff lying around. Doyle caught on, then Santorini caught on to him.'

'Nasty— Clarity is the sign of a clear conscience.'

'Pornography of the underaged in bulk, sir. So he was mighty suspicious of everyone, really nervy, twitchy. Picked up that Doyle wasn't everything he seemed, must've thought our Ray looked like a shifty screw. Jumped him for no good reason in one of the empty hangars with intent to permanently disable.'

'What was Doyle doing in a hangar?'

'Meeting me, sir.'

'What were you doing in a hangar?'

'Had just finished meeting up with Murphy. He's ground crew.'

'Your cover—'

'Still intact, sir.' Bodie put the faintest sulk in his tone. Of _course_ his cover was still intact. 'Santorini was really set on taking Doyle out. Wouldn't stay down. I accidentally applied lethal force, sir, no shots fired. Might need a clean-up crew at the coroner's, though.'

Cowley birthed a long, unpleasant pause. 'This is the fifth accident of yours this year, Bodie, and we have yet to see spring.'

'I know. I am sorry.'

Sharply, 'I've heard it before. Enough times to know your repentance fails to impact on your future actions. Are you sorry for killing a man unnecessarily, 3.7? Or for the additional paperwork?'

Bodie bit the inside of his bottom lip, the pressure distracting him for one, two, three quick breaths. There were so few people that he respected. It irritated him that helping Doyle with his rage against the world invariably meant hurting the other.

'Sir.'

Cowley harrumphed. 'Will you or 4.5 be submitting the report?'

'Me, sir.' Something else that Doyle owed him.

'And you're certain Santorini was completely clear of terrorist connections?'

Bodie heard the snide implication. _You haven't gone and killed a lead, have you?_ 'Yessir, certain. Suspected he was clear about three days ago, but Doyle planned to follow through for another two days before calling in, just to be sure. Dead or alive, Santorini's completely clear.'

'Any suspicions as to who's involved, if not Santorini?'

'Santorini was always a long shot, whatever his profile. Even if he had been involved, it'd be as a doorman. Talking to Murph, I'm thinking logistics.'

'I'm listening, 3.7.'

'Software. The company's gone and spent a ruddy fortune trying to implement a new flight scheduling program. External company, contractors. Strangers, every one of whom has total access to flight patterns, schedules, and, get this, passenger bookings.'

'Why didn't we know about this earlier?'

'Airline's not doing too well, sir, this is the last hoorah before the end. To push up the value and sell off the company, you know the tactic, sir? The airline's retired seventy percent of their staff, which means they can demonstrate a huge boost in profits in the short term, with the capital investment in software being the bit of sugar for potential buyers. Plus capital investment comes across as a tax deduction. Statistically, profits skyrocket. On the books, one shoddy operation looks more like a very attractive opportunity for a fledgling billionaire looking to buy his first airline. Be a nasty surprise when he realises what he's bought, though.'

Dryly, 'Reading the Financial Times in your spare time again?'

'Yessir, stockmarket's got better odds than the greyhounds. Watching my retirement fund blossom.'

'Acorns to oaks, lad?'

'More like peanuts to peanut butter, in CI5.' Bodie grinned at Cowley's scorn. 'In the meantime, we haven't heard about the software contractors because the company's been keeping it _very_ hush-hush. The staff aren't happy. The seventy percent redundancies have set up a picket line at the bleeding gate, and the rest of 'em inside are threatening a walkout. You know much about unions?'

'I may have heard somewhat of the benefits of collective bargaining,' said very, very dryly.

'Just wondering, sir, seeing as our last combined petition for regular working hours was met with—'

' _Bodie_.'

'Yessir, unions. So you can surmise what'd happen if word got out that the company's bosses were spending more than a few bob on computers after letting real people go, right? An' that sort of media wouldn't make the airline much of an attractive purchase. At the moment the disgruntlement's still localised.'

'So you put this together from talking with Murphy?'

'And Doyle, sir.' Which was technically true, Bodie told himself, for all the hangar meeting with Murphy had happened hours before Doyle snapped. 'Doyle heard it on the office grapevine, so it could've been bollocks or sour grapes. The flight attendants, the pilots don't know a thing, from what I've heard. But then Murph reckons he saw the computer techies – they're set up in one of the upstairs offices, the ones what were shut down when the company downsized, operating at night. Spied 'em from the tarmac, while he was up a ladder refuelling.'

'When were you planning on telling me this?'

 _Telling Anson, you mean?_ 'Now. Except Santorini went down.'

'Are you off again soon?'

'The Tel Aviv run.'

'That's—'

'Where the discrepancies keep cropping up on the incoming, yes.'

'Keep your eyes open, 3.7.'

'Endearingly wide and with fluttering lashes, sir. As per my current job description.'

Cowley hesitated. 'On a more serious note, I am unwilling to believe that your run of recent bad luck is coincidence. And in my position I cannot insist on it, when queries arise.'

'Yessir.'

'They will, you know.'

'Do you need me …' Bodie trailed off, uncertain. Whatever Cowley needed right now, it was not a heartfelt offer to rough up the new Home Secretary on his behalf.

'I find myself in the position of having to weigh your actions against your results. But I am not in this role to play judge, Bodie, nor an arbiter of, what to say, outliers of performance?'

'No sir.' Bodie succumbed to an expression of confusion, confident behind the shield of the phone.

'Ah, but you're doing well, laddie. You and I, we're due a long meeting on your return.'

Casually thoughtful, 'Oh. We are?'

'Pencil it in and let Angela know, once you've confirmed a date for your current engagement to wrap up. The Minister will be invited.'

'Bit over the top for a wristslapping between friends, sir, having the Minister as witness.' Testing.

Cowley ignored the hook, which meant this wasn't a reprimand. 'The Minister himself has commented on your record of late. _Not_ the fatalities, lad.'

'Ah.' Bodie grinned, swiftly exultant. Definitely not a reprimand. It probably would kill the old man to offer a straight compliment, come to that.

'Aye, the all-knowing "ah". Do keep in mind your professionalism in one field cannot measure against nor nullify this increasing list of unnecessary fatalities.'

'I hadn't expected it to, sir. Apples to oranges.'

'So to speak, Bodie, so to speak. Have a good flight, and call me as soon as you safely arrive. I'll be looking forward to your return.'

Bodie's grin widened to a smirk at the suggestion of sentiment, the displaced domesticity. Another life, maybe Cowley's signoff would have been meant the way it sounded.

As for what could the Cow had meant by the prior waffle, Bodie was still delighted, cracking his knuckles one by one as he turned from the phone. Ten years. At fucking _last_!

He came face to face with a haggard, lurkish Doyle.

'Cowley, hey?'

Through effort of will, Bodie kept smiling. 'How's that, then? Little dog lost followed me home!'

'Didn't. Was waiting for you.'

'Panting, huh?'

'Desperately.'

'Mucked up my bedsheets, I'll bet.'

'Jerking off on your pillows. Chewing on your knickers.'

'Knickers!' Bodie let the indignation take light, and said, with grave dignity, 'I think you mean underwear.'

'Pink frilly ones?' Doyle's comeback was automatic, and lacking in spice. 'Diamantes and satin?'

Bodie gave it up. 'I must be getting old, mate. I don't remember giving you a key. Not to this place. Fairly sure you're not supposed to know me.'

'Window,' Doyle said. His gaze kept sliding.

Christ, this was bad. 'Cat, then, not pup, if you're climbing through my windows.' Bodie returned to the fridge, distracting himself from the inevitable. 'There's wifebeater here, if the fuzzer's housebroken?' A raised eyebrow suggested that Bodie had his doubts.

'Yeah, think I can hold back from spraying the curtains.' Doyle sat at the table, as if someone cut his strings. 'Speaking of, hope you didn't eat that curry while I was jerking off on your pillows. It's gone rather dramatically off.'

'The green fungus was a bit of a clue, Sherlock. I binned it.' Bodie topped two bottles and slid one across the formica.

'Since when do you drink this crap anyway? Thought you were a German import type.'

'Yon surprisingly expensive homebrew? Since Cassie brought a sixpack over and passed out before she could get rid of it the long way 'round.'

'Cassie? Now that sounds more like a dog.'

'Air hostess, you reprobate. Local run.'

'Don't you get all the cushie roles of late.' Even Doyle's spite fell limply. 'Air hostesses, fuck. I get secretaries with spread and paperclip nerds.'

'It's the grey. You look way past the age limit for cabin crew. Me, on the other hand…' Bodie let the smugness radiate.

'You fit right in, I'll bet. Not sure what that says about you though.' A snort, the barest trace of usual humour. 'Suits you, hostessing. Hosting. Ha!'

'Like a twinset and pearls.' Bodie let the sibilant curl.

'Cabin crew,' Doyle mused. 'Is that what they're calling it these days?'

'Like sanitary engineers, innit? A rose by any other name, my love.' Bodie took a swallow of beer and made a face. 'Couldn't even freeze the yuck out of something this bad.' He sat opposite his partner and smiled, broadly, inviting the belief that nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. 'I do hope you enjoy your beer, sir.'

Finger by finger, Doyle wrapped his hand around the bottle's neck. He swigged so fast the beer foamed as soon as the bottle touched down.

'Thanks. For covering for me, with the old man.'

'Force of habit,' Bodie dismissed it. 'Covering for us, anyway.'

'No. Thanks. For all of it.'

Bodie examined the bubbles rising through his beer, his fingernails, the movement of veins over tendons as he squeezed a silent rhythm into cold glass. Doyle's gratitude rarely came as pure thanks, the occurrences of said purity Bodie could count on one hand. Life and death situations only. It meant that the backwash was yet to come.

The wait was not long.

'Not that you had to do any of it,' Doyle added.

All at once, Bodie lost his patience.

'Any of _what_ , Doyle? Cover for you with Cowley? Told you, I was covering for me as much as you. Just in case you _forgot_ what happened, old man.'

'Why'd you—'

'Shoot that ruddy crawler? Because you were about to, Ray! Like you did that first time! But it's not your thing, is it? Couldn't have you grovelling about in your vomitous self-pity again, so don't worry, I'll take your shit.'

A flash of green fire. 'Except I wouldn't have–'

'Shot him?' Bodie snarled. 'Then you would have walked out of there wishing you had, and that's another pile of morbid regurgitation there. So I—'

'Killed him.' Flatly. The resentment reared its head, high and hard. 'I fucking _had_ him pissing himself, Bodie. I wanted to—'

' _Shoot him?_ Here again, Doyle? And if you had, you would've walked out of there wishing you hadn't.'

'You can't keep taking this on yourself! You can't! It's my –'

'Middle-life crisis? _I'll buy you another fucking Jag, Ray!_ Just say the fucking word!'

'Problem,' Doyle said, quietly. 'It's my problem, not yours.'

'It's not even that. It's your retirement.'

Doyle looked at his beer, and suddenly lost his fire. '"m not even slipping, you know.'

'Course you aren't,' Bodie said, calm. 'Deliberately fucking up, more like. Self sabotage. If you were slipping, we could train it out of you. You've not got the patience for it any more. Not with a countdown hanging over your head. Can't change the bloody world in six months, sweetheart, even if we doubled our headcount.'

'We,' Doyle husked. ' _Ours_. What happens to _us_ in six months?'

In six months, Bodie would be half a step behind Cowley's shoulder, for the first time considering the Controller as a role, not as Cowley Incarnate. All roles could be learned, filled, and Bodie would have five years to grow into it. Young blood, taking command at forty, but damned if CI5 didn't need this sooner rather than later.

He examined the expanse of table between himself and Doyle. Bodie didn't like antiques. He would source _his_ desk from the shelves of the Modernists.

'All depends on whether or not you get me locked up between now and then, mate.'

Doyle put his face in his hands, fingers clawed over his eyes. 'What happens then?'

'If you get me locked up? Dunno. I'm still officially on secondment to CI5. Probably wind up back in fatigues, digging holes in Somalia.'

'Not what I meant.'

'You mean,' Bodie said, with a hint of warning, 'if you do get me dishonourably discharged if not incarcerated, am I going to hunt you down and make you pay for what you done?'

A glower broke through the cage. 'Haven't asked you for anything, Bodie, it's not my fault if you – You don't owe me. I never _asked_ you to take it on yourself—'

'You've been my saving grace for a decade, Ray. Let me be the other.'

Bodie bewildered himself sometimes. He covered by drinking again, screwing up his face in distaste. Where had that come from? Even Doyle was taken aback, a brief moment, before the limp-boiled disappointment came flooding back.

'I'm not going to stay.'

Bodie knew. Raymond despised the implication of greasing the chain of command. The same Ray who couldn't hack the Met's politicking a decade ago, cringing now from the thought of having to do the same, to survive in CI5 but off the streets. Doyle lived his roleplay, of a world where he was centre. CI5's A-Squad had given him that. God help them both, but even Bodie had given him that.

Fucking ego, Bodie thought, wistfully. Ruined both of Ray's careers, and all of his relationships.

'Shame. I was about to order in.' With flair, Bodie fanned his collection of takeaway menus. 'Chicken or fish?'

'Do you want me to stay?'

'For dinner,' Bodie said, charitable. 'Maybe afters, if you're good.'

Doyle went inexplicably hazy-eyed, while Bodie fought back the sensation of a skipping heartbeat. Every time Doyle pulled that face, Bodie was stolidly perplexed: how had their off-and-on unofficial afters ever stretched into these years of being permanently off?

They were still staring at each other. Ray's breath was coming in fast. It was weird. Bodie flexed a well-practiced smile.

'Thank you for joining us this evening. The weather in London tonight is miserably predictable, with a forecast of predictably miserable. If the weather cooperates, we should be spared a view of the city as we descend, won't that be lovely. Dinner will be coming around in about twenty minutes time, following the offer of a light snack and beverages. The inflight movie will begin shortly after that. Until then, do sit back, relax and enjoy the rest of the flight.'

Wondrous, Doyle resurfaced from whatever hole he was in, into his grin, with a force like a radiant heater.

'What's the movie?'

'Don't really care,' Bodie said breezily. His heart was yammering, stupid thing. 'As long as it's not another episode of Let's Feel Sorry For Ourselves While Taking It Out On Our Best Mate, that is. Seen it too many times. Predictable. Shit ending. Everyone dies.'

Even that just prompted a cheerful, 'Wanker. You know what?'

'Think so, that wall-eyed bloke, works the corner newsies?'

'I could fucking murder a curry, Bodie.'

Whistling on his way to the phone, Bodie paused to glare at the kitchen bin, as if to deter the old curry from debating the likelihood of its resurrection for immediate sacrifice.

  



End file.
